Certain things are a requirement if you live in Los Angeles. You must have, at some point, visited the beach. You must know at least one struggling actor. You must have a car. And, this one is a cardinal rule, you must have eaten at Roscoe's House of Chick'n & Waffles. Forget the food, which is consistently excellent, Roscoe's is a staple of L.A., part of its DNA. A li'l bit of soul, whose menu appeals to every living human on the planet. You like chicken? perfect. You like waffles? this is the spot. You don't eat chicken Or waffles? that's fine, have some green beans. they got those, too.

Every time I meet an LA native who hasn't been, I stagger back, aghast, immediately make plans to take them. From the time I was a child, my dad regaled me with the menu, with the sublime nature of eating chicken and waffles, together. Yet, for some reason, he never took me. Maybe he realized that Roscoe's is an experience one must choose for themselves, a right of passage for L.A. residents. Or maybe it just slipped his mind.

It wasn't until college, some hippie kid I knew took me, and damned if I haven't gone back at least once a month in the last 10 years. It's just that good.

Megan understands this. She goes at least once every few weeks. And I respect anyone who values Roscoe's as much as she does.

I wonder if other cities have the same thing?

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